


Bloody fingers

by Mishka10



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Caring Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier is an idiot, Jaskier | Dandelion Can Take Care of Himself, M/M, Taverns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:08:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27628628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishka10/pseuds/Mishka10
Summary: Jaskier runs into some trouble in an inn one night. What starts with the trading of words quickly escalates. A punch is thrown.A smart man may have turned the other cheek, a smart man may have taken the hit and walked away.At times like this it would be a mistake to call Jaskier a smart man.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 5
Kudos: 161





	1. A drunk idiot

Jaskier is choking.

He has mind enough left to realise that fact.

There is a hand, pressing down against his windpipe, squeezing in the sides. He is only just able to still drag in a rasping, broken breath. A rough, coarse thing, sharp and painful, sucked in over bent bones.

He can only just manage it, due to the awkward angle. Feet dangling just off the ground, fingers scrabbling against the hand holding him in place, struggling to find purpose. A bad position to be in, bad position to fight back.

But enough to put pressure on the man as well. Attacker struggling to keep him lifted. Struggling to squeeze out the last of his breath. He can feel the tremor in the man’s arm, the signs of tiring. The man can’t hold on for much longer.

But then Jaskier isn’t sure if he can hold on much longer either. His vision is shifting, the edges of his view beginning to fade to black. Breath so weak, barely there, neck cracking under the pressure.

He doesn’t even remember what they are fighting over. Alcohol still pulsing through his veins. He doesn’t remember what ridiculous thing it was that spurred on this fight.

He has a fuzzy memory of trading unkind words, a fun twisting of carefully crafted phrases met with blunt aggression.

A smart man may have walked away.

A smart man may have thrown in the towel and left.

At times like this it would be a mistake to call him a smart man.

So, he stayed. He fought back, with sharp words, the drinks in his veins blunting his retorts, adding an exposed, cutting edge, that otherwise would have been covered, hidden behind clever, twisting words.

And then someone took it too far. Someone threw a punch.

A smart man may have turned the other cheek, may have taken the hit and walked away.

He had swung back.

And now he is pinned against a wall, arm pressed against his throat, leaving him gasping. Chest heaving, fighting to keep it working. Keep pulling in a breath as desperately as it can. He twists. Turns. The arms holding him up waver. A slight but prominent shake set into the muscles, body decidedly weakening.

It had become a race.

Whose body would give in first? If he had been in a different position, he isn’t sure who he would be willing to bet on, vision fading as quickly as the man seems to weakening.

And then scrabbling hand finds something close to purchase. He digs his nails in, clawing at the man’s flesh, dragging them down. Sharp and fast.

The arm buckles, bends, a half choked out cry is pulled from between the man’s lips, a quiet thing that the man does his best to cut off and bite it down as much as he could.

But Jaskier has no care for the cry, the broken sound means nothing to him. What matters is the bend of the arm, the release of the fingers, reflectively opening, curled free from his throat.

The hand releases.

He falls. Feet hit the floor, firm and solid. He gasps. Falls against the wall behind him, back flat to the wall. It is cool, cold wood panels pressed against his sweaty skin.

He drags in a broken breath, chest heaving, desperate to tug in the sweet, cool air. A hand claws at his chest, almost tearing open his shirt, needing the air, the space. Needing to breathe. Gods he needs to breathe.

Not that he gets long to recover. Not allowed long to pull in a breath, resettle his heaving chest, before the asshole before him lunges again.

Fuck. 

The man dives forward, hand outstretched, as though reaching back for Jaskier’s throat. Reaching to wrap those thick fingers back around his neck and press.

The hand misses his throat, be it luck, or a man off kilter from the booze floating around his veins Jaskier can’t be sure. The hand instead smashes into his face, whacks into his bottom jaw. It throws his head back, a quick snap of a movement, tossed back fast and sharp, skull connecting with a heavy thump against the wall.

He gasps, head spinning, a sharp pain growing in the back of his head, radiating out forward, an agonising pulsing pain. Brain jostled in his skull, an ache set in, head pounding.

He gags, wishing he had a moment to let his head settle, let the pain fade, his blurry vision clear. 

But the universe gives him no time, the man before him practically clawing at his face, sharp fingers jabbing and poking at his face.

He tries to shake it off. Twists, turns, head shaking as much as he can bear, trying not to jostle his aching head any more than necessary. An uncomfortable nausea already raising in his stomach, bile rising to the back of his throat, burning and sour.

He wants to vomit.

He wants to press his aching, burning forehead against the cool ground, let it rest, let it settle.

He wants to _breathe_.

The scrabbling hand pushes against him, whacking him back against the wall again and again. Adding to the radiating pain. The building headache. Fingers clawing up his face, once almost managing to scratch at his eyes, Jaskier only just managing to duck back away from the sharp, scratching nails.

He tries to shove back, his own hands raising to beat against the bastard, failing to do enough to remove the pushing, clawing hands, failing to even make them waiver in their chaotic, messy attack.

Perhaps the stocky asshole was stronger than he had initially thought, clearly able to take a hit or two, or perhaps he is just weakened more than he thought, lungs still struggling for air, head beating out an agonising rhythm against his skull.

He has a sinking feeling he now knows who he would bet on.

And then lady luck plays her hand.

A hand slips, random luck leads fingers to land in the open, gasping mouth.

He tastes the dirt, feels the click of a nail against his tooth. Mind managing to muddle through the pain, clear enough to realise what has happened.

Notice the gift luck has given him and take it.

He bites.

Teeth sink down into exposed flesh. Sunken in deep.

He bites with a ferocious strength. Sharp teeth sliding through skin, sinking into the meat of the hand.

The man screams. Loud, pained, no cut off manly huff this time.

The hand yanks back. Or rather, the hand attempts to yank back, pull away and shake him off. It doesn’t work.

He digs in, teeth sinking in deeper, through flesh and muscle and ligament. He almost swears he feels teeth scrape against bone. Scrape against it as the man shakes and tugs, trying to pull free.

The man screams again. Gods so pained and desperate.

_Good._

The man yanks back again, other hand raising to beat against Jaskier. He shakes from the blows, teeth slipping open for a second before snapping back down. Sharp onto the two fingers still in his mouth. He does his best to hold tight. Grind teeth against bone and do as much damage as he bloody can.

The hand strikes his ear, sets his head ringing once more. Jostled and uncoordinated.

His jaw unlocks, hand ripped from its grip, finally yanked back and clear of the sharp, crushing teeth.

The blood sticks to his teeth. Bright and burning, the tangly metallic taste slick on his tongue.

Before him, the man cradles his hand to his chest. It is clearly damaged, cracked and bloody. Fingers held as still as possible, a nervous, pained shake already set in, injured muscles twitching desperately. 

The man gasps. A sharp, short breath sucked in and huffed out, chest rapidly heaving. the man takes a stuttered deep breath, managing to calm his chest best he can. Eyes flick up from the mangled hand to meet his own. The eyes are dark. Dark and red and piercing.

There is a pained rage there. A deep, anger, mixed and muddled with something else. Something that just might be _fear_.

He grins, a bloody, messy thing. Feels the blood trickle out between his lips. Watches that spark grow. That small glisten, developed into something real. The unmistakable twinge of fear.

His smile grows, lips curled up, sharp and pointed.

He snaps, darting forward, teeth clicking sharp together, blood sent splattering out, a few flicks landing on the bastard’s face, almost hitting the man in the eye. The man’s face scrunches up, lip curled in a disgusted, frightened snarl.

The man steps back. Steps out of his space, out of his breath. Intentional or not he gives Jaskier space.

The space to breath.

The space to leave.

It is an offer.

An acceptance.

A smart man would take the offer.

Carefully push past, grab up his lute, swing it over his shoulder and leave.

As his brain beats against his skull, he thinks sometimes, just sometimes he can be a smart man.

The lute is heavy on his back. Strap feels sharp against his neck, cutting into his shoulder, the adrenaline the only thing still keeping him going. Keeping him standing.

He half expects a blow to the head when he turns, headed to the door. Half expects to feel his head explode into further pain; the man not truly willing to let it go so easily.

But no blow comes.

Instead, he is free to weave his way between the tables, the mostly empty room, past the eyes of the handful of other patrons still left. His vision is muddled. Blurry. Head still aching, alcohol still flooding through his veins. Feet fall unevenly but he makes it.

He makes it to the door and is free to push it open and step out into the cool evening air.

He is free to half stumble his way down the road, footsteps uncoordinated and shaky, beating out an odd rhythm against the ground. Vision tunnelled down on the uneven cobblestones, world on the edge of darkness, sun mostly gone, mostly sunken below the edge of the horizon.

Gods does his head hurt.

He is free, to muddle his way around a corner, tipping to the side with the movement, a hand raising to bounce him off the wall of the building there. Push back up and continue on, a slight sway set into his step.

Mind only just not quite clear enough to realise he isn’t sure where he is going. He had planned to book a room at the inn, toss over some coins earned from the performance and simply slip away upstairs.

Simple and easy.

And now slipping away behind him.

He rounds another corner, and almost loses his fight to stay upright when he collides with what feels like a brick wall.

He stumbles back, feels a foot slip, twist. Ankle clicking. Now aching along with his head.

A hand grabs his arm before he manages to fall.

He takes a breath. Takes in the sight before him.

The overly familiar sight, broad shoulders, medallion glinting even in the fading light of the night, and that painfully familiar glare.

An unmistakable form of the Witcher.

Well, isn’t that just what this evening needed.

Judgment. From Geralt.


	2. Chapter 2

He sways with an uneasy weight. Body tipping forward, raising on the toes before swinging back on heavy heels. Shoes sliding against the cobblestones.

Geralt’s hand tightens on his arm in response, the Witcher raising an unimpressed eyebrow at the state of Jaskier. “Drunk, bard?”

Drunk.

His head is pounding. A dangerous, radiating beat. A pressure building behind his eyes. A radiating, heavy wave. Chest tugging in, rough breaths pulled through pained ribs. Throat dry and aching. Uncomfortably sore.

The alcohol in his veins is the least of his worries.

_Drunk._

He snorts at the question. Blood splattering out, dribbling down his chin, a scattering of droplets flicking out onto Geralt’s shirt.

He doesn’t miss the shift in the Witcher’s face. The drop. The amused sparkle in his eye, edge of a laugh, had faded away. Replaced with something darker. Something tinged with concern.

Geralt raises a hand, wipes a dribble of blood off Jaskier’s chin. The blood is bright on his thumb, Geralt taking a moment to study it, turn it over and stare before smearing it off, onto the corner of his shirt, blood smeared thin, hidden in the dark material.

“it’s not my blood.” His voice is thick. Rough and slow.

It is not his blood. But it coats his mouth. Bright on his tongue. Sharp and metallic, burning as it drips down his throat. it sticks to his teeth, staining them red.

The concern in Geralt’s eye lightens at the words, but only slightly, only just. He tilts Jaskier’s chin, shifts the man’s head, slow and carful, other hand raising to press to Jaskier’s brow.

Taking in the bard’s hazy, unfocused eyes. The fresh red scratch lines marking the man’s cheeks. Geralt tilts bards head further to the side, thick fingers pressed against skin, checking to see that his head still turns, still tilts as it should.

Eyes drop to the deep red marks staining Jaskier’s neck. The broken, crushed blood vessels, site already starting to bruise.

Jaskier pulls back before Geralt has a chance to reach for it. Head dropped, shoulders rounded, curling in on himself. Aware of the sway still set in his body. Aware he has no way to stop it. Head light, heavy. A foggy, uneven mess.

He tips, sways, almost stumbles on nothing once more, gravity seemingly working against him.

But the hand returns to his arm, catching him before he falls. The hand offers a light squeeze, accompanied by a rough, “alright bard.”

Geralt guides him round, on unsteady feet. Nudges him forward, keeps him going.

He lets his mind wander as they walk, lets it float off, into blankness. Keeps his focus on his feet, falling one in front of the other, simple, steady and slow.

He almost doesn’t notice that they are retracing the path he had only just taken. Back around the corner, up one street, and then another. And then there they are, stood back before the same wooden door he had pushed open less than an hour before.

Some small corner of his mind thinks that maybe he should say something. Suggest they keep walking, find somewhere else to spend the night.

But that would take effort. Energy and words.

And Geralt has already shoved open the door, already taken a step forward, the hand curled around his arm, pulling him on forward as well.

He takes a breath. closes his eyes for a moment to settle himself and follows the pull.

The man is gone.

It takes him a moment to be sure, eyes nervously flicking around the room, taking in each face, each patron who bothered to stay, as few as they are. He checks each one, double checks them, making sure that one face isn’t there anymore.

He lets out a breath he wasn’t aware he had been holding, tight in in his chest. Lets out a breath, lets tired eyes slide shut for a second, sit in the relief.

He is still standing there, counting the pulsing beat of his head. The huff of his breath, when Geralt reappears beside him. He had only half even noticed the Witcher had left, having missed the entire conversation between Geralt and the bartender, although he assumes a conversation must have happened.

Geralt nudges his arm, shoulders knocking together, “alright Jask?” the question is soft, quiet and gentle.

He focuses enough to hear the words. Tease them apart enough to understand them. He nods, not wanting to bother with finding the energy for words again.

Beside him Geralt nods, nudges him forward once more.

He lets Geralt lead him on. Weave them between the tables, nudge him up the uncomfortably narrow stairs in the corner. Geralt pushing him on first before following on behind, there in case he slips. He takes the steps slowly, half leaning against the wall, letting it prop him up as he goes.

Geralt guides him down the narrow hallway at the top, down to a small door at the back. A small key appears in the Witcher’s hand, lock clicking open, door swinging in to reveal the small room within.

He steps into the small room. Sits heavy on the side of the one bed in the room. He feels the dip of the mattress below him. Body feeling heavy. Feeling weighted. Eyes slid shut, hands resting on the edge of the mattress, thumb rubbing soft circles against the rough fabric.

There is a rustle from the side of the room, the thump of bags being set down, a clinking of glass followed by heavy footsteps, slowly approaching him.

He opens his eyes to find a glass of water dangling before his face, lose in Geralt’s grip.

He takes it. Takes a gulp, swishes the water around in his mouth, spits into the bowl Geralt holds out for him, the water now a rusty, dirty red.

But his mouth feels clean.

Metallic tinge finally gone. The sticky layer that had coated his teeth washed away.

He gulps down the rest of the water. Let the cold fluid cool his throat. Help settle his uneasy stomach. 

Geralt settles carefully on the edge bed beside him. large hands return to press against his forehead once more. Rough fingers moving slowly along his skull, checking for anything out of place, check it over, looking for cracks.

The fingers shift down slowly, run along his jaw, tilting it, making sure it shifts and moves as it should.

The rough, pressing fingers continue on down further, to brush against Jaskier’s throat. Against the red, burning skin-

He yanks back.

A quick, startled move made of pure instinct. Mind suddenly rushing, with memories of the struggle. The fight for air, chest already heaving desperately, as though worried the ability to do so will ever so quickly disappear once again. 

He rests a hand on the heaving chest. Feels his heart pounding out a panicked beat, blood pumping, tugging in frantic breaths of air, in over a sore and aching throat. it comes out almost as a wheeze, body working too hard, too stressed.

He gasps. Gags. Fights to calm the panicked muscles. Let them settle. Let them calm.

Chest half calmed, Jaskier waves off Geralt’s attempts to calm him, the heavy hand resting on his shoulder, flinching on instinct away from the touch.

“ ‘m fine.” He manages to bite the words out. Spit them onto the floor along with the blood. He straightens, rolls heavy shoulders. Settles back, heavy and firm. Chest finally calm once more he tries again, “I’m fine.”

Geralt snorts at that, “ _fine,”_ the unimpressed eyebrow rises again, corner of his lip curling up, over sharp teeth, in tight annoyance, “fine, really Jaskier?”

He pauses, shrugs. No point arguing, it wouldn’t do any good, he is pretty sure he has lost that fight already.

Geralt shifts, hand moving back towards Jaskier, and he flinches. One of his hands curls around his own throat. holding it, cradling it, protecting it as best he can.

Geralt let the hand drop. Sighs, heavy and slow. Offers a tired Nod.

Jaskier huffs out a breath. Head tips back, tips up, staring at the celling for a moment, not looking at Geralt. He sighs in answer, swallows, feels his neck shift uncomfortably. Tilts his head back down to face Geralt, slowly curling free his hand, letting it drop down into his lap, “okay… okay.” 

Geralt nods again, shifts forward, only ever so slightly. Hands raising slowly, ever so carefully. He flinches slightly, when the soft hands first makes contact, but does his best to stay in place. To let Geralt prod and poke and check the sore bones and aching muscles.

Geralt stays slow as he does. Careful, calm, and gentle. Fingers soft against his neck, pressing against it ever so slightly.

He swallows again, trying to fight back the nerves, anxiety only increasing when Geralt hums.

The hands drop away. He feels himself tense, nerves locked up. A tight huff of a hot breath spilling out from between his lips.

“Nothing seems broken.”

He sighs. Lets out the breath caught in his chest. Good. Not broken, no cracked bones, nothing slipped out of place.

Then Geralt hums again, still staring at him, sharply, critically. “It is swollen, and it will bruise, but it will heal.” 

He nods. He had expected the bruising, he already feels it. Feels that ache, that dull pulsing mess of blood, pooling under the skin. Yes, he does not doubt that it most certainly would bruise, and bruise something awful by his wager.

He trails a hand along his neck, feels the hot skin, red and burning beneath his soft fingers.

Geralt moves, stands, offers another soft squeeze to his shoulder before moving aside, sets to work on dragging off his armour, tugging off heavy boots, clearly settling in for the evening.

Jaskier sighs, bends to tug off his own clothes. Doublet undone, tossed aside, boots pulled off and dropped next to the bed, not having the energy to bother to do much more than that. He shifts. Swings heavy legs onto the bed, settles back comfortably, head heavy on the pillow. 

There is a weight. Heavy behind his eyes. He sighs again, lets tired lids pull themselves closed. He pulls in a heavy breath, the stillness letting him feel the tired tug in his chest, the still present tinge in his ankle, uncomfortable as it is.

He listens to Geralt move about the room. The thud of clothing dropped on a chair, shifting of bags and rustle of new clothes being tugged on.

He hears the light thud of footsteps, softer now, with the boots gone. The bed dips beside him, he hears Geralt huff out a soft breath, quiet and calm. They sit for a still moment before the Witcher breaks the silence, words as careful and calm as the stillness had been, “do you want to tell me what happened?”

He shrugs. What can he say to that? What is there to say? _What happened._ He isn’t even truly sure himself. He shrugs again, “what happened? I played, I sang…” he shifts, adjusts. “Mmm I performed something wonderful, and… I drank.” The words starting to spill free with familiar ease, “they drank, and then… we fought.”

Geralt snots at that, “you fought bard?”

“Mmm” he hums again, “someone threw a punch, and what was I to do but hit back.”

Geralt sighs, offers a slight shake of the head but does no more to press him.

“I.” Jaskier says firmly, “did not start it but-”

“-but you ended it.”

“but I ended it.” he agrees, firmly.

Geralt snorts again. Grumbles something out, much too quiet for him to hear, and he is much too tired to press it and ask.

Jaskier takes in a heavy breath, feels it settle deep in his chest, the pull of sleep tugs strong on his mind, almost outweighing the pulsing pain of his beating head, the fading remnants of nausea still clawing at his throat. 

Beside him, he feels the Witcher shift, swing over and manoeuvre in to lie beside him.

The bed is small, as small as the room. it leaves them pushed together; shoulders pressed firmly against each other, out of necessity if nothing else. Not that he minds the pressure. The comforting press, comforting closeness between them.

He lies still. listens to the quiet huff of Geralt’s breath beside him. Feels the demanding pull of sleep, tugging on his mind.

With a final, tired yawn, wide and stretching, elbows knocking against the Witcher, he deems himself ready to give in to the pull.

To let sleep settle heavy in his bones, push him down firm on the bed. weigh him down and let him sink through the mattress and dissolve.

Into a comforting blank nothingness.

Warm and soft.

**Author's Note:**

> \- thanks for reading-


End file.
